Hands Off. Please.

Ask anyone who has ever worked with me… I don’t like being touched, specifically I don’t like being touched by people with whom I don’t already have a close or intimate relationship.  Like a lot of people, I have my personal-space bubble, a space that requires an invitation to enter.  I have some very well established, long standing relationships with people, but that haven’t graduated to the touching stage.  I once had a boss for 7 years, and I can’t ever remember getting a hug or even a handshake from her.  I’m just not a fan of random hugging, especially at work. 

Clearly, at work there are lots of kinds of touches, and the way people touch and the way people feel about being touched  makes this a really cloudy issue.  To me, this isn’t about a legal definition (although I’m pretty sure a legal definition exists).   It’s more that there are some touches, like hugs, that are sometimes acceptable and sometimes expected that cause the greatest amount of grief.  Especially for a non-toucher like me.

I have been well known to commit the odd HR violation.   My HR violations are almost always because I can’t keep my big mouth shut, not because I can’t keep my hands to myself.  I can’t ever remember a time when I felt like I needed to reach out and touch somebody.  I’ve never ‘mistakenly’ felt up somebody’s boob or butt.  I have been known, however, to say and occasionally write things that could be considered inappropriate, but that’s a story for a different day. 

Inappropriate contact at work isn’t so hard to identify.  What is more challenging is the whole idea that what is expected and considered acceptable behaviour by some can be considered inappropriate and offensive behaviour by others.  I’m speaking of course of the hug.  With the exception of my wife and my daughters, I’m not hugely into hugging.  I’m often the uncomfortable recipient of ‘work hugs’ and ‘bro hugs’.   In fact, I got bro-hugged in lobby of a hotel last week, almost out of nowhere.  I wasn’t expecting it at all.  To be clear, I am almost never the initiator of this type of contact, which makes the rest of this story all the more unbelievable.

I was attending a trade show in Vancouver in about 2007.  A lot of hugging happens at these trade shows as you see people that you only see once or twice a year, and it’s a place where old and longstanding relationships are rekindled.   I still don’t typically pro-actively reach out and touch anyone, and I usually pay very close attention to who is coming in my direction that may have a hug on the brain.  I like to be prepared.

I was standing at my booth, and across the show, I spotted a customer, Donna.  Now Donna and I had known each other for many years, and our relationship had progressed to a point where a little hug was normal.  It was fairly quiet, so I left my booth, and strode across the show, and walked right up to her.   As I threw my arms around her, I said, “Donna, it’s so nice to see you here…”   At that point in the hug, I felt Donna completely tense up, and I released her.   It was like hugging a telephone pole.   I went on talking about how I hadn’t expected to see her there, and that maybe we should grab some lunch during the conference.

I’m not sure when I realized that this person wasn’t in fact Donna.  Perhaps it was the strange, ‘somebody call the cops’ look on her face.  Maybe it was her defensive posture.  Maybe it was the fact that she took 4 big steps back as soon as I ended the hug.  As soon as I realized she wasn’t who I thought she was, I flushed.  I could feel the heat in my cheeks, and I got dizzy.  I had just accosted somebody in a tradeshow.  At that point,  I lost control of my ability to form a sentence, and slunk away, back to my booth, praying that I would never see this woman again.  

As it turns out, I did know this woman.  Debra and I hadn’t known each other very long, and we had definitely not graduated to the hugging place.  Talk about awkward.   This is one of the reasons I don’t hug.  Debra and I ran into each other at another tradeshow some months later, and when she spotted me, she took a very wide lap around, so as not to have to walk right past me.  Luckily, I had the opportunity to speak to her and to apologize, which she graciously accepted.  Debra and I agreed that we were not huggers.  We shook on it.

I once had a boss who was absolutely not a hugger.   On her best day she was like a block of ice.  I was extremely surprised, therefore, to be at a dinner with her where she was dispensing hugs to a number of business colleagues.  It felt like a receiving line at a wedding.  I could see her coming down the line, and I was both interested and afraid to see what would happen when she got to me.  I was counting down…three left, two left, one left…then she got to me and it was one of the most awkward moments I’ve ever experienced in business.   She didn’t want to hug me anymore than I wanted her to.  She looked at me, and I looked back, with everyone else looking on, and all she said was, “No hug for you…”   She chuckled and walked on.   It was both a sense of relief and embarrassment all at the same time.  Mostly relief.

Draco and Voldemort...widely regarded as the most awkward movie hug of all time

This year I started a job that has me traveling to Montreal a lot.  In Quebec there is a lot of that two-cheek kissing going on.  You know, kiss, kiss.  For a non-toucher who’s not from Quebec, it’s a dicey situation.  Which cheek do you kiss first?  How do you know if you’re in a kissing situation, or a hand shake situation.  Do you wait for the other person to initiate the kiss, or you do you?  What happens if you initiate and it’s not the right time or place for the kissing?  What do you do with your hands when you’re doing the kissing?  There’s a story in this month’s Men’s Health magazine that is supposed to help me become a better kisser, but I’m pretty sure that the tips they offer don’t apply when giving the two-cheek Quebec kiss.  Being a Better Business Kisser…there’s a story that would sell.

 

 Start with the left?

100,240 is the Loneliest Number...

100,240.  That’s the exact current real-time balance in my Aeroplan frequent flyer account.  Lots of people have lots more miles than me, but I use mine.  These are the miles I’ve earned this year.  Still, it’s not a huge number when compared to some other road warriors.  My flights are typically short-haul within Canada so I earn 500 miles here and 1000 miles there… I’m certainly no George Clooney in Up In The Air, the movie where he earns his millionth mile and joins a very exclusive club, but I'm no slouch, either.

Most people think that business travel is a perk.  They think it’s exciting, and that it’s something that you earn.  While there are certainly benefits, like the air miles, to be enjoyed later, there is almost nothing that’s exciting about business travel.  My lovely wife, Laura, calls my trips ‘my little holidays’…and I can understand that as a mother of three who is often left alone to parent three growing girls on her own, why she would see a few days away as a holiday.

What Laura and lots of other spouses of road warriors don’t see is the loneliness and boredom of business travel.  They don’t experience the discomfort of eating alone in restaurants.  They don't experience the pleasure of a regular pat-down by airport security.  They don’t experience the joy of turning the water on in the shower of a 4 star hotel and finding somebody else’s short curly hairs stuck to the bar of soap in a shower stall that clearly hasn’t been cleaned.

That actually happened.  I flew to Calgary for a conference at which I was speaking and was booked into a pretty posh place.  After a long flight with lots of delays, a longer cab ride from the airport, and a long wait for a check-in, I got to my room and decided to take a shower.  I went in, opened the glass shower door, and found an open bar of soap with somebody’s short and curlies stuck to it.  One word.  Ewww.

So I called the front desk, spoke to the very apologetic and equally grossed out clerk, and to his credit, within minutes, housekeeping was at my door.  They quickly cleaned the bathroom, exorcising it of all random pubic hair, and took off.  I showered and went out for dinner.  When I returned, there was a plate of chocolate covered strawberries waiting for me with a note from the manager.  A nice touch, but it’s a pretty grody way to have to earn some free fruit.

I am a very loyal hotel guest.  I see the value of frequent guest programs.  I know what I’m entitled to, because God knows I’ve earned it.  If I’m entitled to an upgrade, don’t make me ask for it.  If there’s a speedy check-in process, please make sure it’s speedy.  If I’m entitled to a late check-out or a free breakfast, don’t make me jump through hoops to get it.  And the simplest of all…please, please, please welcome me back.  Having worked in the hotel business for many years, I know how easy it is.  We have computers now…and they tell you everything.  I’ve been staying at the Residence Inn-Westmount in Montreal almost all year, and I have to say, they make me feel special.  They look happy to see me, they ask about my family (I had them there for a few days, and now, almost every time I’m there, they ask about my wife, or the girls), and they know what I value.  It’s consistency, predictability and a friendly welcome.

I once stayed in a hotel in Winnipeg every other week for a year.  I was a platinum member of their rewards program.  Every time I checked in it was like the very first time I was there.  Every two weeks, the same question…”Oh, Mr. Slater, have you stayed with us before?”  I get that I’m ultimately forgettable, but you have a freaking computer that should be flashing at you when I get there.  Every week it was a different type of room-smoking and non-smoking, single beds, double beds, queen beds and king beds.  I think I even had a Murphy bed.  Never a bunk bed.  Sometimes it was up high, and sometimes it was down low, sometimes an upgrade, and often a downgrade.  Occasionally breakfast.  And never, and I mean never, in over a year did I hear the words Welcome Back.  I only stayed there because I could see my office from the front door, and because I was madly banking points in their hotel program.  In a karmic twist, I think they lost their branding, went belly-up, and they’re no longer a hotel.

If you are a road warrior, you’ve likely checked into a hotel late at night and heard the unfortunate words, ”… all we have for you is a parlour.”  A parlour is not as delightful and cozy as it sounds.  What it is, is a hotel room without a bed.  It’s the living room portion of a suite with a pull-out sofa.  When a guest doesn’t want the connecting living room (or parlour), it’s locked off, and when things are tight, and all the rooms with real beds are taken, parlours are given to guests arriving at the end of the night.

I arrived late one night in Ottawa.  I knew the city was busy since I couldn’t get into my normal hotel.  It was after 11pm when I arrived, and I just had a feeling I was going to parloured, as, having been a night clerk before, I’ve parloured many, many late-arriving guests.  Typically with a discount (even free), and breakfast and other amenities to soften the blow of not having a real bed.   Buddy at the desk gave me the parlour look, and said, “Mr. Slater, I have a deal for you…”, to which I responded, “You’re going to parlour me, aren’t you?”  He was completely surprised by my psychic ability, and offered me 25% off and free breakfast to sleep either in a cot, or in the pull out sofa.  I chose the cot, and headed for my room. 

My cot arrived, and my feet hung off the end.  It was so low to the floor that it felt like I was camping.  They also sent me up two bottles of dasani water for my troubles.  Long story short, I couldn’t sleep, and had to be up to deliver a webinar at 7:45 am, which I intended to do from my hotel, before I went to the office to terminate someone, the only reason for my trip.  I finally fell asleep about 6am, and of course the alarm didn’t go off, but miraculously, I woke up at 7:40.  I logged into my computer and dialed into the conference line just in time to welcome the guests to the call.  

I was about 5 minutes into the call as I glanced into the mirror, and in another proud professional moment, saw myself standing there, hair askew, in my underwear, delivering a web-based seminar on the subject of Calculating Return on Investment to a group of customers.  Thank God for everyone that this was the pre-Skype era.  The check out process was brutal because the discount hadn’t been applied, and to boot, I was too rushed for my free breakfast.  It took a half an hour to check out, and by that time, I was late for the termination.  I got to the office, and the employee who wasn’t expecting to see me said, ‘Oh hi, you’re not here to fire me, are you?”, then giggled.  That’s the kind of trip it was.

So, just like in the movie, I have a set of clothes that is always ready to go.  I have my toiletries in the zip lock bag.  I wear loafers to go through security.  I seek out the lines where nobody's going to hold me up.  I use all the privileges I’ve earned as a frequent flier and frequent guest.  While these privileges sometimes make things more comfortable, they don’t make up for being away, they don’t make up for all the time in airports and on planes and in taxis, and they don’t turn traveling for work into a vacation.  And they certainly don’t make up for having to deal with somebody's left over pubes.

Fringes and Beads and Tassels, Oh My...

As a manager, not many things get me too worked up.  You’d have to check with the people I work with to be sure, but I think I take most things in stride.  In fact, people have mistaken my lack of stress at work for me not caring enough about what’s going on.  I just believe that there’s always a solution, and it’s way easier to find it if you’re not freaking out.

There is one thing, and in the grand scheme of things it’s a pretty small thing, that can get me fired up at work.  It’s evidence that good sense to one person is obviously not good sense to another.  It’s further proof that unless there is a full and clear explanation, that when left to our own devices, we interpret things in our own way.  I’m talking of course about four of the most misunderstood words in business today.  Business Casual Dress Code.

As my kids now write, ohemgee.  OMG people have idea how to interpret a couple of very simple words.   Business Casual.   In almost every job I’ve ever had as a manager I’ve had to spend time managing the dress code, and moreover, managing people’s understanding of the dress code.  There are times when I’ve wanted to laugh, and times when I’ve wanted to cry.

I have read, and worse, written, more dress codes than I care to think about.  In what world is it OK to ever show up to work in an office wearing a belly shirt with fringes and beads?  This, in a company with not just a documented dress code, but one that is posted in the lunch room.  I remember very clearly the exact wording from the policy:  "If you would wear it to the beach, a backyard bbq, or a dance club, it’s likely not an appropriate choice for the office."

Not a good look for the office.  Or anywhere for that matter

I once worked for an upscale national hotel chain where the uniform policy was so strict that they checked the polish on our shoes.  They made sure that the ladies’ skirts were just the right distance from the knee.  Today, however, it seems acceptable if the skirts barely cover the butt cheeks.  I remember showing up to work the night shift one evening. It was a quiet night, and I was unlikely to encounter a guest, never mind someone from the hotel's uniform squad.  As I was getting changed in the locker room, I realized that I did not have a dark pair of socks to wear.  All I had was my white tube socks. I was so distraught that I would be out of uniform that I raced out of the hotel looking for a place to buy a pair of socks.  

In 1995 there was nowhere in downtown Ottawa to buy a pair of socks at 10:30 on a Sunday night (I'm sure that's still true), so my frantic journey led me to Shopper’s Drug Mart, where I had no choice but to proudly buy two pairs of silky black knee-high panty hose.  I went back to the hotel and put on these knee highs, two pairs at once so they didn’t look so see-through, I put on my pants and my shoes and worked my shift wearing panty hose so I wouldn’t appear to be not following the dress code.  Incidentally, it was kind of a nice feeling, although I had some blisters by the end of my shift.  Things have clearly changed.  Today it's a victory if everyone’s wearing gitch and they’ve got their cleavage and their pierced belly buttons covered up.  I am no prude.  I enjoy cleavage as much as the next guy, but let’s keep the twins in check at the office, right?

I recall for years having this sense of dread as the seasons would change.  We would have just settled into a nice understanding of what was acceptable and what was not as far as appropriate clothing at the office was concerned, and whammo, all of a sudden it’s summer and the dress code train was off the rails again.  I once got a gift from one of my team members, a custom T-Shirt emblazoned with the top 5 ‘Slaterisms’-the things I said a lot.  The number one ‘Slaterism’ was “If you don’t wear your spaghetti straps, I won’t wear my thong.”  I guess after a few years of saying that in meetings people started to catch on (or at least feel comfortable mocking me about it right to my face).  I've said it so often that on two different occasions I’ve received thongs as gag Christmas gifts from members of my teams.

Trust me, the other option was a picture of me in a thong.  I made the right decision here.  We all know it.

The whole idea of a dress code is really interesting (to me, anyway).  In some cases where there is a documented dress code you can spend your life trying to get people to follow the policy, with little success.  In other cases, where there is no organization, let alone documentation, people just know.  I travel for work a lot.  I’ve spent a lot of time in airports in Canada and in the US.  The next time you’re in the airport on Sunday afternoon or evening, take a look at the men.  We look like a bunch of refugees from Stepford.  We all look the damn same.

Somehow in the road-warrior's psyche, we’re wired to know that on Sundays at the airport we wear jeans, loafers, a dress shirt and a suit jacket.  I know why we do it- because science has yet to invent a way to jam a suit jacket into a suitcase (a complete misnomer, incidentally) and have it arrive at your destination in a wearable state-but I get a kick out of being part of a flock of identically dressed sheep at the airport every week.   Sometimes the really cool hipster type business dudes don’t tuck their dress shirts into their jeans.  This is not a look I can usually pull off, by the way.

The Sunday Uniform

I resisted the Sunday uniform for a long time, but I now do it because I’ve unsuccessfully tried many different ways to make my suit wearable after it’s been inside my suitcase, including hanging it up in the bathroom of the hotel and turning the shower on hot in an effort to steam the thing.  One time at a hotel (sorry again to my friends at the Delta Fredericton) I put the suit in the bathroom, turned on the water to steam it, and fell asleep, waking up about 9 hours later.  I’m sure there was no hot water left in the hotel, my entire bathroom was soaked from steam and condensation, and there was in fact paint peeling from the bathroom ceiling.   My suit was absolutely soaked, so it’s a good thing I didn’t need it until the next day.

Under the heading, "Men are Sheep", I’ve also had many occasions to go to meetings in the United States.  People in the US have a much clearer understanding of what business casual means, especially the men.  If you go to a meeting in the US and the dress code is business casual, pack the following articles of clothing if you plan to fit in.  You need a blue oxford button down shirt.  You need a pair of khaki pants.  Dress pants, not chinos.  You need a pair of oxblood coloured penny loafers and you need a navy blue blazer.  If you wanna throw caution into the wind, bring a nifty pocket hanky or a cool pair of socks with some design, or even loafers with tassels, but for God’s sake don’t deviate from main components.  That is unless you want to stick out like a sore thumb.  This is not as true in Canada, but it’s pretty much a business requirement south of the border.

If you're an American businessman, you know exactly where to go to buy this outfit.  I have one too. 

The thought process involved in deciding what to wear to work is really interesting.  Some of us dress to fit in, and some to stick out.  Taste is a really personal thing, I guess, and in writing this, I’m pleading more than I’m ranting…unless your job involves a pole, it’s a good bet that the fringe and the beads should not form part of your work wardrobe.  And please, don’t make me wear my thong.  Nobody wants that.  Really.

The Unfriendly Skies

1A.   1A is my solitude.  It’s my favourite seat on the airplane.  It’s a place, where for an hour or two or three, I can be totally alone.  Even if the plane is full, I can just sit and be quiet.  That is, unless somebody sits beside me who wants to chat.  Knowing that there is always the possibility of a Chatty Cathy plopping down beside me, I plan for it.  Like a good Boy Scout, I’m prepared.   Because of my experience, it is my intention to be the most inaccessible, unapproachable person on the plane.

The epitome of a Chatty Cathy that I don't wanna sit beside on plane

I’ve been a regular flyer since about 1999.  I’ve heard more stories about families and jobs and other bad flights than I could ever recount.  I’ve had people fall asleep on me.  Worse, I’ve woken up on other people.  I’ve explained my company and my job to more people than I care to imagine, and since I have often worked for companies that sell products that lots of people don’t understand, by the time I get through the first two sentences of my explanation, my seatmate is already regretting asking about my job in the first place.  I remember once spending an entire flight beside a guy, praying that the oxygen masks would drop from the panel above my head because that would be the only thing that could possibly shut buddy up.

We may have no oxygen, but at least he's quiet

So I now have a survival kit that that I take on every flight with me.  It’s not food or drink.  It’s not even a personal flotation device in case of, well, you know...  What it is, is all the tools I need to build an invisible wall around me, complete with a virtual sign that says Do Not Disturb.  I have my head phones, my new KOBO, sometimes a magazine, and always, my blackberry.  When used in conjunction, these lifesaving components clearly say, ‘I’m Busy.  Let’s not chat.”  Most people get it, and I believe that most people, secretly, feel the same way. 

 

When you have 80 flights under your belt in a year, you get some privileges from Air Canada that make flying a little easier.  You get the occasional upgrade to business class, access to the lounge, and you also get pre-boarding.  Pre-boarding for me is like the holy grail.  It allows me to get on the plane, and settled before most other people.  It’s a dream come true if you don’t want to engage with your fellow passengers.   If I’m lucky enough to get upgraded on a fight that has Air Canada’s business class ‘suites’, my problems are solved as there is no easy way for one passenger  to speak to another.  Great for me, but pretty shitty if you’re travelling with a friend or your wife on a 7 hour flight and you actually want to talk.

Solitary Confinement, Refined.

I know the airport routine by heart.  I stay in the lounge, away from all the other people until 5 minutes before boarding, when I exit the lounge and make for the gate, checking of course to make sure the flight isn’t delayed.  If it is, I head immediately back to the business centre in the lounge, the place where I’m least likely to be engaged by friendly travelers.  Ideally, I arrive at the gate just in time to start boarding.  I don’t sit.  I get my passport and boarding pass ready, and stand as close to the gate as possible without looking too desperate.  I know the gate agent body language and all the steps in the process leading up to boarding by heart.  As soon as they get the magic call from the plane clearing them to board, I start to move.  By the time they make the announcement, I’m at the desk, and shazam, I’m the first one on the plane.  I’m embarrassed to admint that I did possibly push past a granny in a wheelchair one time in my rush to get on board first.   It’s certain that I don’t like to engage, but I now at least try to be courteous.

The business centre in the lounge.  Serenely quiet.

When I board, I get out my survival kit, stow my luggage, and sit down.  I immediately put in my ear buds and fire up the KOBO.  By the time my seat mate arrives I’m fully engrossed in whatever I’m doing, even if it’s listening to dead air and reading the same email on my blackberry for the 15^th time.  I don’t ever say hello.  I don’t even make eye contact.  There is absolutely nothing welcoming about my body language or behavior.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not rude or ignorant, I’m just not friendly.  I’m not into fast friends.  It’s just not me.   On a trip to Montreal it’s 57 minutes in the air, and an hour and ten minutes, gate to gate.  I plan to make the very best of those 70 minutes and catch up on my quality time with myself.

Ear phones...STAT!

 

On this past Sunday, my plan went sideways.  I was completely out of sync.  I wasn’t the first one on the plane, but I did beat my seatmate.  I got my survival kit out, but didn’t manage to get my ear buds in before my seatmate arrived.  I didn’t say hello.  I didn’t make eye contact.  As much as I tried to disappear into the seat, this woman was hell bent on talking to me.  

First it was hello.  Then something about her carry-on and the number of people flying on Sunday afternoon.  Then she asked for a review of my KOBO.  I was doing my damnedest to ignore this chick, but she wasn’t gonna have any part of it.  Before I knew it, she hooked me.  For a while I was completely focused on how to exit the conversation and get those ear buds in my ears.  After 20 minutes, I just gave up.  By 30 minutes, I had forgotten completely that I don’t like to talk to people on planes.  By 40 minutes in I had made a new friend, and by the time we hit Montreal, I couldn’t believe 57 minutes had passed by so quickly.

My new friend Gayle is the mother of four.  She’s building a business.  She’s funny, and she’s a blogger (I think a far more professional blogger than me).  She’s a reader, she’s inquisitive, she’s busy, and she’s engaging.  I reached Montreal a little confused and really questioning my tried and true approach.  What have I been missing all these years?  How many new facebook friends, twitter followers and linkedin connections could I have amassed across all those thousands of miles that I’ve flown?

As I arrived back at the airport today, I briefly thought about my experience on Sunday.  I thought about it as I hid in the business centre of the lounge.  I thought about it as I inched my way toward the departure gate so I would be the first one on the plane.  I thought about it as I stowed my luggage and got out my survival kit.  I put in my ear buds and disappeared into the surroundings as my seat mate arrived.  I didn’t make eye contact, and I didn’t say hello.  And I wasn’t thinking about changing my approach anymore.

There is no question that I enjoyed my Sunday flight in seat 1C with Gayle occupying seat 1A.  She is delightful.  It was nice.  I just don’t think I have the energy to do that on every flight.   Whether I’m seated in 1A, 23F, or 37B, I’m like the boy in the bubble.  It’s my space and it’s my time.  And I’m not inviting anybody in.

I'm not sure how I'd get my bubble through security, but I'd sure try